


What Lies Beneath

by Nellie



Category: Cthulhu Mythos - H. P. Lovecraft
Genre: M/M, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 20:27:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/299732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nellie/pseuds/Nellie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A hunt for the source of a mysterious manuscript doesn't exactly end as planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Lies Beneath

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vangirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vangirl/gifts).



“Where did you say you got this?”

I look away from the old, leather-bound manuscripts stacked precariously on one of the apothecary’s shelves, back towards the workbench where he’s flipping through my own tome. “I found it in a box of uncatalogued texts,” I say.

The apothecary, Nicholas, glances up at me like he knows I’m lying. “I see.”

He turns his attention back to the book and I run my fingers along the smooth black wood of the workbench, strewn with pots and jars and too many things I have no idea how to name and aren’t sure I would want to, anyway. “He killed himself,” I add suddenly, on impulse. I haven’t trekked half way around the world to lie to the person who might be able to tell me the truth. “My professor.”

Nicholas doesn’t look up this time. “Oh?”

The hazy air feels thicker as I swallow. “Yeah. I found it when I was cleaning out his office. The annotations are his.”

“You’ve read them?”

I’ve read the whole thing cover to cover more times than I care to count, even the parts I can’t translate at all. “What I can. I heard you might be able to help with the rest.”

A gust of wind through the open shutters makes the old-fashioned kerosene lamp flicker, throwing creeping shadows over the walls. “What exactly have you heard, Mr. Coffman?”

Uncertainty tightens my stomach and for the first time I wonder if some of the more fantastical things I’d heard are true; whispered rumours and anxious contacts, a trail of fear that eventually led to this grotesque little shop and this oddly unassuming young man. “That you know things. Things no-one else knows.”

“There are more things in Heaven and Earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy,” Nicholas quotes. “Some people are just more aware of them.”

I pick up a jar filled with silvery worms just to have something to do with my hands. They’re writhing against the glass, still alive, and I put it down with a shudder I hope Nicholas doesn’t see. “And you can show people these things?”

“If they want me to.” He smiles then, and it’s a handsome, predatory thing. “Sometimes even when they don’t.”

He flips the book shut before I can answer and stands up, walking around the workbench to stand in front of me. He’s a little taller, but if it weren’t for that smile and the sharp focus in his dark eyes, he definitely wouldn’t be imposing. As it is I take a step back, the hard edge of the workbench pressing into the backs of my thighs.

“Why are _you_ here?” Nicholas asks, tilting his head. “If it was about the book, you could have waited until morning.”

I open my mouth, then close it again. Part of me wants to say that I haven’t been following the trail for months only to go back to my hotel and wait once I finally found him. There’s a warning prickle at the nape of my neck, though, and I feel like lying again might be a really bad idea. “I just want to know if it’s true,” I say. “All of it.”

“That’s a dangerous question,” Nicholas says, reaching out suddenly to lay his hand on my jaw.

His fingers are cool, and maybe I should have flinched more, but... “I came anyway, didn’t I?”

I only get a second to contemplate what the sudden shift in his eyes could mean before his nails dig into my cheek and he shoves me around and down, heavy hands on my shoulders and body pressed up against my back. I try to buck him off, but even with the leverage of my hands on the black wood of the work bench he’s too strong.

Panic rips through me along with thoughts of every twisted thing in that book, and I can’t even breathe as something wet and thick and strong twists around each of my ankles, dragging my legs apart. “Fuck,” I choke out, but the word is lost under the sound of my pants tearing. More slick muscle swarms up my legs, slimy and warm, wrapping around my balls and pressing insistent and wet against my hole.

I’m about to say no, to scream, to say _something_ , but it comes out as a strangled moan when one thick tentacle forces its way inside me, just on the wrong side of pain. More thin tentacles ooze up to stroke my cock to hardness even as more press inside me.

“Nicholas,” I gasp, breathless under the growing weight holding me down.

He murmurs something then, but I can’t hear it over the sound of my own pulse throbbing in my ears. More slick muscle tightens around my upper thighs, pulling my legs further apart.

“Do you still want to know?” he repeats, closer to my ear.

I shudder as a very human hand curls around my cock, the tentacles easing out of the way so it can stroke me in gentle contrast to the thick push of the others inside my body, shoving impossibly deep. More thin, wet muscle creeps up my inner thighs to stretch me even wider, and I sob.

“ _Do you?_ ”

I’m too close to coming to do anything but groan “Yes,” and dig my nails into the workbench like touching something real and sane and tangible might stop me from falling apart.

Another hand grabs my throat, twisting my head back in a painful arc. I want to scream when cold fingers probe along my lower lip but it’s like the air is trapped down in my lungs. The fingers press in, levering my jaw open, and I choke on the rancid taste of them even as my stomach clenches with pleasure.

“You don’t get to choose,” Nicholas whispers, lips brushing the back of my ear in a warm caress. “It’s all or nothing, and you can’t decide to put the parts you don’t like back on the shelf and keep the rest for yourself.”

The tentacles still inside me, twisting instead of thrusting, matching the rhythm of the warm hand on my cock. It’s too slow, forcing me to hang on the edge of orgasm, and I don’t even I want it to stop or if I want to beg him to keep going. “Nicholas...” I gasp out, struggling against the tension in all the limbs holding me firm. There’s no way it’ll get me free, but it does get me more friction.

“Call me Nyarlathotep,” he says, voice so cold and fathomless that I can feel it in my bones.

Then I scream.


End file.
